


The Year to Come

by captainofthegreenpeas



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Affection, Book/Movie 2: Catching Fire, Can't remember the poems' sources, F/M, Fear for the future, Fluff, Heavensdew, Holiday Season, Intimacy, Mild Angst, Rarepair, love poetry, mild sexual references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 09:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12478676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainofthegreenpeas/pseuds/captainofthegreenpeas
Summary: December 74ADD (pre Victory Tour) Plutarch and Fulvia share a private evening together, knowing full well that the most dangerous year of their lives lies ahead.





	The Year to Come

“I need to get you something really nice for New Year,” Fulvia was saying as she set down the hot chocolate on the adjacent table, then picking it up again to have another gulp. “I still have time.”

Judging by her tone, she had been pondering the task with difficulty for some time.

“You always have before.” Plutarch had enjoyed the sarcastic notes she had squeezed into the margins of last year’s gift, a compilation of otherwise dull Capitol propaganda. The satire in it would have made Snow’s eyes bleed, but thankfully nobody would think to read it, not knowing what sedition was smuggled inside its pages. It looked like any other flunky’s handbook. To add sugar to the cake, all who saw him reading it; and genuinely smiling, assumed it was proof of almost loving devotion to the Capitol.

“Not as a lover,” she countered. “It’s different. Besides, now you’re Head Gamemaker, I can enjoy the wonder of disposable income.”

 _For now_ , Plutarch thought. This would be his last December, if the Quarter Quell in the year to come resulted in failure. The Victory Tour was in a matter of weeks, the announcement of the quell next season, and after that… by this time next year, he would certainly not be in the Capitol.

But then, if this was the last winter solstice he would see, best to pass it with Fulvia. She had not said it aloud, but they knew full well that if the rebellion collapsed in the coming year she would perish almost as certainly as he would.

“My best interests are yours, now; just as your best interests are mine,” Plutarch had told her that four years ago, when he first met her, when she was the stranger who had without introduction or interview become his assistant. “So don’t think betraying me will ever be a good idea for you, any more than mistreating you will ever be a good idea for me.”

Before then, Fulvia had managed Tigris’ business affairs, but the stylist’s fall from favour meant that the chain of command had slipped a notch: Tigris took control of the fur shop; and Fulvia was left in danger of penury. It was Cinna, Tigris’ protégé, who had recommended Fulvia as Plutarch’s next assistant (the last one was not a rebel; and it wouldn’t have been possible to turn him.) Cinna had promised that she was diligent and clever; and could be trusted. That was enough. It would not have mattered if Fulvia was dull, or arrogant, or cruel. It would not have mattered if they were itching to throttle each other. The revolution took priority over personal opinion.

Thankfully, personal opinion had only improved over time. At first, Plutarch had found her helpful but a bit strange. He could tell that Fulvia was observing him, silently evaluating him to try and figure him out before letting her guard down. Plutarch pretended not to notice. He didn’t blame her for it. Gamemakers were, with few exceptions, mean-spirited, entitled and lecherous. Eventually, she seemed to reached her conclusion; when her smiles reached her eyes.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he told her. “I have hope, health and an ample supply of reading material. That should be enough to sustain me.”

Judging by her huff, he hadn’t been entirely helpful. Plutarch took a slurp of hot chocolate. It was just the right blend of milk and cocoa; and the warmth went straight to his toes. Good. He hated winter. The wind seemed to sneak in at his ears, his neck, his wrists, no matter how well he wrapped up. The cold echoed through his bones for longer ever year that passed. The Victory Tour meant painful, barbarous extravagance; and New Year wasn’t much better. Another year gone meant another year of unrivalled Capitol hegemony, another year of his mortal life spent without touching a ballot paper or feeling safe.

“What time is it?” Plutarch asked.

Fulvia checked the clock. “Quarter to seven.”

She wrapped her arms around his middle and hugged him tight. Their lazy day was almost over. The underground movement had a meeting tonight at ten o'clock and after that they would go their separate ways at different times. Neither of them complained about it. They had been leisurely all day; and there was work still to be done. If the night was cold, their day had been warm. They could not ask for more than that.

Fulvia closed her eyes as he ran a hand gently down her back.

“Tell me a poem,” she murmured over his heart.

“A poem?”

“It doesn’t have to be a long one. But one that suits the time we’ve spent today.” Plutarch smiled. He knew just the one.

“My love in her attire doth shew her wit,” he gently stroked the back of her neck. “it doth so well become her; For every season she hath dressings fit, for Winter, Spring and Summer. No beauty she doth miss when all her robes are on: but Beauty’s self she is…”

“Yes?”

“…When all her robes are gone.”

Fulvia gave a short laugh at that, all bashfulness gone. “Another!”

He pondered a little longer this time. Some poems fitted just a little too well; and consequently were a bit depressing. Poems about love and death felt like tempting fate.

“Drink to me only with thine eyes,” he decided, running a hand through her hair as she tilted her head, sighing. “And I will pledge with mine; or leave a kiss but in the cup and I’ll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise doth ask a drink divine; but might I of Jove’s nectar sup, I would not change for thine.” Plutarch gave her a light kiss on the forehead, stroking her cheekbone with his other hand.

“‘bee?”

“Yes?” He looked down; and Fulvia kissed him, humming contentedly.

“A toast?” She whispered.

A few days later, Plutarch sat up in bed, the small box of Fulvia’s gift in his lap. A new pocket watch slept on a small blue cushion inside. He opened it to see the clock face and absentmindedly ran his thumb across the glass, thinking of the flowers on her face. Slowly, as if catching fire, a mockingjay took flight.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own either poem


End file.
